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About the author: Alexander was born a Southern gentleman in Raleigh, North Carolina. Currently, he neither seems Southern, nor at all gentle. If anything he’s slightly loud, abrasive and kinda grabby (see: handsy). He graduated from UNC-Chapel Hill in 2010 with a Bachelor’s degree in God-Only-Knows-What. Soon thereafter, he set out across the United States, settling in Los Angeles, CA in order to pursue his goal of becoming a respected and famous screenwriter (with an eventual drinking problem). In 2048, he will die tragically, getting hit by a car, while trying to retrieve a twenty dollar bill from a busy intersection.

A couple months ago my bosses alerted me to the fact that they’d be retiring their Los Angeles lifestyle for almost a year in order to embark on a sabbatical which apparently is something successful people in their 30s can do. So as I’m writing this, they’re enjoying coladas on a tropical coast somewhere, while in L.A. I’m having an existential crisis related to what my “next phase of my life” will be.

Me contemplating my future (I’m crying). Photo by Kalee B.

While my motivation for finding a job that just pays the bills has waned, my enthusiasm for my narcissism has not. Case in point: when it comes to celebrating my birth, which happened last month on November 3rd.

Being a rabid scorpio, I decided to invite a select a few of my closest and dearest friends (longevity + loyalty) to join me in a pagan dinner at one of L.A.’s venerable establishments, the old-world style TAIX (pronounced like “tex” or “tax” or whatever). Its current location in Echo Park was erected in 1962 and they “specialize” in “French Country” cuisine. I use “quotation marks” because to be fair, I have no idea how a real-live Frenchie would rate this Southland staple as authentic. But what do I know about anything authentic? I live in Los Angeles (actually I just looked at their website that mentions something about the restaurant’s creators being 4th generation).

Going inside, aside from all the dim lighting, wooden beams, and wall murals depicting rustic France, not one employee speaks French or even speaks with a French accent. However, what Taix lacks in realism, they make up for in size: Taix is HUGE. So when I asked for a room to accommodate 19 of my closest twenty-something friends, it certainly wasn’t a problem, and the minimum]we needed to spend was $350. Which in L.A. sounds like a sick, disgusting joke. But a joke in my favor, so it was set.

My rules for the evening were simple. It was all about me. It was all about my friends. You had to wear all black (I would be wearing all white), and you had to make a speech about how great I was. Conversely you could also talk about how much I sucked, but those weren’t as enthusiastically encouraged.

Trinity of the Forest

One other interesting bit was that I was going to be wearing a goat mask, while two of my other friends (Katie and Steph) would be seating the other guests donning a chicken and pig mask. I’m not really sure what kind of vibe we ended up with, but I think it was mash-up of Kubrick’s The Shining and Eyes Wide Shut.

A flower for the Goat

The meal began with wine/tequilas/martinis being served (Taix’s wine list is both affordable and finely selected). By the servers’ expressions walking through and other patrons staring, it was clear that this wasn’t a typical birthday extravaganza.

Some of the usual suspects

When I was ready for the speeches to commence, Steph chimed her glass signaling everyone to quiet down. From there it was a slew of heart-warming orations – from Kalee’s memory of first meeting me over a Four-Loko, to Kim reciting a poem, Dan slurring his words that I can hardly remember, to Katie’s envy that I can be “both a dick and charming at the same time”, and Mary reminiscing how she always knew I was gay as a basket, yet how long it took for me to finally admit what she already knew. There was also resident bad-girl, noise musician Elaine Carey (from Telecaves) sitting at the end scowling and sipping Bourbon. But if you know her, this is her happy face!

One of the more deceptively fascist moments of the evening.

After each and every speech I also took a moment to stand and deliver a response – which highlighted why these people were invited and taking part in the celebration.

What remains slightly foggy about the night was the food itself. Given that this is a “food blog” it’s kind of embarrassing, but I was so overcome with love and joy that I barely sliced into my unglam rack of lamb (with mashed potatoes and drizzled with garlic sauce). It’s a shame too because that dish is exceptional and I had had it before. Dan mentioned his hangar steak with pomme frites and peppercorn sauce was “amazing” and Caroline texted me the next day gushing over the buttery risotto she reheated for lunch at work.

The lamb was present. I was bleating.

Nothing about Taix’s fare is particularly “innovative” which is a word that is so over-used these days, that anything “original” or “cutting-edge” just doesn’t cut it for me. Sometimes you want that comfy, familiar food that takes you back. The kind of cuisine you knew your grandparents would think is “fine dining”.

It’s not surprising that in your twenties, everyone is always scrambling to find their voice, or stand out from the crowd, and be at the forefront of everything – especially as they realize their irrelevance is approaching with each passing year. The struggle to be relevant is exhausting, and sometimes you simply need to sit back in dim lighting, lounge in a comfy leather chair with rusting wheels, surround yourself with good company, and enjoy that ice-cold dirty martini with a hunk of lamb. Like your elder relatives used to. While you’re at it, forget what you’re trying to be and just be in the moment — and be grateful.

The first script I ever completed (not counting the handwritten childhood plays I put on in my living room wearing my mother’s sequin dresses for an audience of exactly zero) was as short film I co-wrote with Alex in 2007 for our group project in the Carolina Production Guild. The film was called “Unhappiness,” and starred the two of us as an even more bitter and disaffected version of our post-teen selves. Actually, I had only just turned 18 at the time. The premise, I guess, is that the two of us are best friends who hate everyone and everything and can’t seem to get anything right. I slip in the shower getting ready for school. We sit in the quad complaining about how sunny it is. We force-feed ourselves at the local sludge buffet while complaining about the food. We make fun of a homeless guy. Then, at the end, we both call our parents and cry about how hard college…

When my friend Kalee B. told me she was going to be in the Hamptons for the summer, I immediately booked a ticket for labor day weekend. As my days to departure shed from the calendar, I dreamed about the countless lobster rolls I’d inhale, the rolling dunes/reeds I’d frolic upon, and the waspy politicos/wealthy business men I’d draw out of the closet for a romantic tryst on the beach.

Aside from that, I was also heading to New York City to reconnect with my longtime best friend of seven years (but who’s counting?) Kat. St. Kat aka Catdookie aka Kathryn. Having first met my sophomore year of college (her first year), we were instantly bonded. My first memories of this girl involve me entering her dorm room where she was wearing rolled up sweatpants and crushing up pills. Later that night we got burritos and she excused herself early to puke in some bushes outside the cantina.

This was the first night we met. Seriously. That’s Kat’s butt being bit by Greg. Photo by me.

The next year we lived together with two others. She moved into our rental before anyone else. When I arrived my first night I found Kat in her room rocking back and forth on a pile of clothes (a mix of trendy chic and thrift store gems), which I think was her bed at the time. In any case she had just dropped acid and her room had no windows, so this wasn’t terribly shocking in retrospect.

Me trying to strangle Kathryn caught on film.

Vivid memories entailed her never cleaning anything in the kitchen and me screaming at her, and then her calling me an “asshole”, bursting into tears and talking on the phone with her mother for two straight hours while chain smoking.

2008 We looked sooo greaaaaatttt

My senior year I think we spent most of it totally great since we lived apart, although I felt we had this unspoken rivalry about who threw the better ragers (hers were the more frequent TBT bashes at 506 Church R.I.P. and mine the Brewer Lane Block parties which apparently still happen?).

We also ventured into college radio together at WXYC and collaborated on student films that were terrible. Most of our days together were spent bickering a lot and telling the other how they could “improve”. I guess the best way to explain our friendship is to compare it to a brother and sister who are both really attractive and compliment each other in the best/worst ways, while feeding their mutual narcissism.

After school, I moved to L.A. while she headed to New York.

Aside from holidays, we don’t get to see each other much, but we still manage to push our respective buttons on social media. Thanks Twitter!

So, back to the trip, I arrived in NYC at 5am, bleary eyed and actually a little drunk courtesy of a few gin and tonics that I managed to avoid paying. Thanks Jetblue! I was dropped off in Kathryn’s neighborhood of Ridgewood — a quaint, normcore area somewhere not in Brooklyn but also not in Queens but somehow between them? I don’t know.

She answered the door in a robe and pink crocs (?) and led me to her apartment that had a post-it note with her unit number scrawled on it: 1R. Aside from the post-it note, I found the “R” perplexing.

“R? But you’re the first floor. And there are only two apartments here.”
“R stands for ‘right’.”
My mind was blown.

Inside her rather spacious (I would found out later by seeing other people’s places) and CLEAN (yes, she cleaned thank God), we caught up for a matter of ten minutes before I passed out on her couch wearing a leopard snuggie that I had no idea how to put on.

Done for. In style.

A couple hours later, I woke up to accompany Kat for her morning commute, but not before meeting her boyfriend as he came out of the shower half naked (#awkward). When we got to her big girl job, Kathryn cast my ass to the wind so I could explore the city — the Met, Chinatown, The Bowery (to Patricia Field so I could accessorize for that night’s queer club kid event at KUNST!), and Union Square. Which is so terrifying when you’re stoned.

@ Patricia Field

Finally meeting back up again for dinner, Kathryn and I were dining at the Kentucky bourbon inspired restaurant MAYSVILLE. The place opened up last year with chef Kyle Knall at the helm, and was chosen via my careful Yelp! research.

Menu

Giant horse sketches as art? Sure.

Kathryn had arrived first which I’m sure annoyed her since she put in effort to be early. After I sat down, I gave her a hat that was returned (see her version of events here), and we ordered cocktails. I went for a Manhattan (how I could I not?) and Kathryn chose a “Bourbon Bonnet” a cocktail made from habanero infused bourbon, pineapple, cherry, and lime.

She pretends not to care. Pictured: My Manhattan and her Bourbon Bonnet

I care too much.

While Kathryn and I were catching up our server probably came to our table twice to ask if we were ready to order. After we said no twice (we were too busy trying to fit Kathryn’s huge head into that hat) he DISAPPEARED. For like… 15 minutes.

Finally when he returned, we asked for appetizers. Kathryn was dead set on oysters even though my face said otherwise. But we got them anyway. I also requested the fried grits with country ham on top. As I prepared to ask another question about the entrees, POOF! Our server vanished yet again. We were shocked, but mainly because it was so incredible that he could disappear with such ease and speed. While we waited we got drunker and scarfed down some cornbread muffins/butter that was brought to our table.

Again our server popped in out of nowhere and Kathryn ordered the Butcher’s steak (a fancy way to say Hangar steak) and I chose for the “slow roasted” Arctic Char. Char is a coldwater fish related to salmon and is the ONLY freshwater pescado found as far north as the Canadian arctic. Entrees called in, our waiter evaporated and we went on about our meal.

Then our oysters came. They were “hay roasted”. This means roasted for just a few minutes on a bed of hay, which allows the smokiness from the dried grass to permeate the shellfish. Served four topped with pickled shallots we devoured them quickly. Then the grits: fried cubes of creamy, southern ground corn. Topped with a salt-cured ham. Each were as rich as you could imagine and knowing our appetites we cleared them with ease.

We ordered more drinks — A pinot noir for me, and another cocktail for Kat (I was a little too drunk to remember exactly what) and our entrees came. Kathryn’s steak was sublime according to her while my Char was flakey, juicy, and buttery. Everything you want in a fish dish. Not to mention the fried squash blossoms and tomatoes + white beans on the side. I ate every last bite.

Butcher Steak

Slow Roasted Char

Wiping our mouths, our plates cleared – Keyser Sose approached our table to ask if we wanted anything else. No dessert for us but I wanted an after dinner drink — a Fernet. He comes back with a clear liquid on ice. I’m confused. Fernet is coca-cola brown usually. I tasted it, and it tasted like tequila. Ummmm…

I called him back over and told him this was NOT fernet. He said it was. And would bring me the bottle. I actually got a little nervous — God forbid I’d be proved wrong in front of Kathryn. He brings me the bottle that I recognize (I have the same at home) and I tell him the liquid in the bottle is dark. He replies — but the bottle is green.

“uhhhhhh I’m almost positive this isn’t Fernet”

“I’ll be right back.”

So he goes off again. Then Kathryn (who has the vantage point of the bar) says, “the waiter just told the bartender, ‘I look like an idiot'”.

Our server comes back to profusely apologize and gives me the Fernet I desired. He also said it was on the house.

SCORE.

As the night ended, the bill came to about $80 a piece which wasn’t terrible but not ideal. Maybe if we weren’t drunks we wouldn’t have to obsess about our bank accounts.

Getting back Ridgewood, Kathryn and I got ready — me and my spiked choker, and Kathryn well, a bunch of hair extensions which she arranged neatly on her bed. Hannah, her brother’s wonderful girlfriend, was coming by to stick them on her head. Around 1am as I complained about being late, Kathryn sat like a princess as the extensions were snapped in, calling me self-centered for rushing her, while chugging her Stellas. She was right because it’s New York, so arriving at the club at 2am is not even a big deal.

Strutting up to Verboten in Brooklyn, an array of friends greeted us. Beers were eight fucking dollars, and shots of whiskey were $13. As we danced in the midst of drag queens and club kids, I was only on the lookout for the cutest, nerdiest guy I could find, which I did when he grabbed my choker and told me he liked it. Case closed, folks.

Next thing I know, the cab driver was helping me out of his car while Kathryn was already freaking out about packing, waking up in 3 hours, so we could catch the Jitney to the Hamptons.

In the morning when I felt like someone had shit cigarettes into my mouth, Kathryn shook me awake. We had to leave. And we had to go to Chinatown, then up to 37th to catch this damn Jitney. Unlike the Hamptons Sex and the City episodes. Kathryn and I were hungover, screaming at cab drivers, had huge deli sandwiches in our bags, and running down sidewalks to make it just on time.

On the bus, Kathryn’s stomach hurt so I made fun of her and ate my whole hoagie. Not to mention asking the Jitney attendant for an extra lemonade because they were delicious.

She wasn’t feeling too hot.

Once we made it to South Hampton, we found out we were 3 miles away from where we were supposed to stay, and possibly not even be able to stay there because of some technicality with Kalee’s company. Apparently we needed to be CLEARED. As if we were terrorists. At the Enterprise Rent-a-Car desk, I specifically asked for the “cheapest car they had” or just “a can with wheels on it”. They had none of that. So at Kathryn’s suggestion of adventure, we walked!

Bad idea. While we looked amazing as if plucked from some fashion editorial — Lamborghini’s, Ferrari’s, and Porsche’s passed by expelling luxurious exhaust in our faces, thorns scraped our bare skin, we were sweating, and also carrying all our luggage (plus some Red Stripe from a 7-Eleven).

Look! Seasons!

Hobo chic

No, seriously, we actually took the train tracks.

Reaching the house shared with a few other girls (none of whom were present), we entered to drop off our shit, complain, take selfies, get changed, then venture into the sea forest to find the railroad tracks that would take us BACK into town to meet Kalee for dinner. Along the way we stumbled upon the mass grave of what were dozens of dead deer, and then chased by a Buck.

Finally, Kalee graced us with her presence after we’d sat and ate two loaves of dinner rolls and some leftover shrimp that two young women decided to gift us. We were essentially homeless so it made sense. Kalee confirmed that we were OK to stay the night but maybe not the next night (what?) but we ignored that fact for now.

The next day after hitting the beach — my one request was to go somewhere with a decent lobster roll. So our hostess chauffeured our asses to the The Lobster Roll (how appropo). In Amagansett.

“Ama-what’s-it?”

“AMAGANSETT!” Kalee screamed at me. She does a lot of screaming.

What followed was a massive lobster roll, the shellfish mixed with lots of mayo (thank god), crinkled french fries, a thing of cole slaw, wedge of lemon, and a pina colada for $40. So incredible, but why was everything (even a simple lobster roll) so GOD DAMN EXPENSIVE!? I needed to get out of the Hamptons. Get out of New York City, and get back to my life. Being poor SOMEWHERE ELSE is actually worse than being POOR AT HOME.

Babe alert – Kalee B.

Idiot alert. Kat St. Kat

I often wondered how my life could have turned out if I had moved to New York instead of L.A. It’s always fun to contrast the 1st and 2nd largest cities in the U.S. The weather comparison isn’t even a competition. L.A. wins hands down. I thought I missed humidity. In some messed-up romantic way. But then as the hottest day of the summer occurred during my visit, and I was walking across the Williamsburg bridge, I laughed. I must have lost my damned mind to ever think such a thing.

In terms of cuisine, I think the level of food is totally comparable between cities, but New York probably has L.A. beat in quantity. There are SO many options. While L.A. has some of the most unique eateries (and In-n-Out), there are usually not so many to choose from like in New York. And it’s hard as hell to find decent Indian food here. WHY I ASK!?

As for transportation, the subways do make everything convenient, but it’s also a SUBWAY. It’s not your car. And strangers aren’t touching you in your car unless you happen to drive Lyft. Or maybe you just like that sort of thing.

And worst of all — in NYC the apartments are TINY, ridiculously priced holes. And the folks living in New York are just willing to accept that. Like it’s ok to be living in a hallway with a closet for a bathroom. But I for one am not. Especially when I pay for something that would cost 2x as much in NYC. And I live alone. Not with four other people that I might have to share a bathroom with. Dorm-life is over, and I don’t want to be standing in the shower trying to remember which loofah is mine. Even if it’s in the middle of trendy-ass Brooklyn.

However, I embrace the energy of New York. The people are beautiful (the sheer quantity of attractive strangers was dumbfounding). And more importantly I embrace the life that Kathryn has made for herself there. Even though it’s definitely not easy. Watching someone grow up can be good or bad, but Kathryn has done it in the best way — her way — and I couldn’t be happier at this point in my life to call her my best friend.

It’s been about three months since I’ve made a post. You know it. I know it. No, I’m not dead. No I haven’t stopped writing. I just stopped caring for a minute or two. Sue me. But let us continue as if nothing bad has ever happened between us please? Great. And let us never speak of this again.

LANTERN *****/*****

423 West Franklin Street
Chapel Hill, NC 27516Author’s note: I’m aware this isn’t part of my standard L.A. restaurant review formula. Yes this review is for a North Carolina restaurant. North Carolina is my home state. Deal with it you louts (I’m bringing back “lout”)

Something you may not know about me: I hate flying. I hate it. I hate the process of getting to the airport. I dislike the actual airport. I dislike all the people. I find the place to be a center of disease. The meeting place for germs and viruses from other states and countries. I dislike security (what will they find? Did one of my friends put a bunch of molly in my duffel as some sick joke?). And I dislike waiting to board my flight, looking out on the plane as it’s being refueled and wondering…. is this the one that goes down? If a mechanic will not spot that missing bolt in the plane’s undercarriage.This sounds terribly dramatic but unfortunately that’s one of MANY morbid thoughts that zip in and out of my brain. During boarding, I even wonder if the jet bridge will suddenly collapse. Can’t help it.

Anyway, it was end of May when I was on my last flight. I was heading home to Raleigh, North Carolina. To see family and attend the wedding of one of my best friends. I’m officially of an age where my nearest and dearest are getting married off to wonderful gents, most of whom I barely know.

The lovely soon-to-be newlyweds

Living in California away from all the people you left behind makes that possible. I also had to read from the Good Book. Lauren, the bride to be, insisted this be the case. Despite my objections of being a wonderful sinner with a lack of enthusiasm for public speaking.

Another fun reason to be home was that another friend Julianna (Ghoulianna / Droolianna), former ice queen, had her heart melted by a prince charming recently. Therefore she had lost a bet which we had made months prior: “whoever gets a boyfriend first has to pay the other $50.” Certain she would win this bet (the loser being the one to get a boyfriend/pay up) she simply laughed it off. Cut to more than several months later and she’s all booed up and shit. So I told Julianna, “you can just buy me dinner.” So the night before Lauren’s wedding we traversed to our college stomping grounds to dine at Lantern in Chapel Hill. Also known as “Chapel Thrill” in some cases.

The restaurant although located in a small college town has several awards and distinctions on its proverbial mantel including Gourmet Magazine naming it one of the 50 Best Restaurants in America. Not to mention the chef, Andrea Reusing, has been raved about — from the New York Times, to Food and Wine, the Wall Street Journal, and has a James Beard for best chef in the Southeast.

Lantern existed ever since I had come and gone from my alma mater but never once did I venture into the restaurant for a meal. My low brow taste (mostly late night Jimmy John’s orders and shitty fried tofu from a place called Jade Palace) and a rather thin wallet precluded me from such extravagance. Although I did happen in on their bar (accessible via an alleyway) many times to sip on more than a few of their innovative cocktails.

Luckily for us our mutual friend Katie O. (Gemini, raccoon, tastemaker, and horror enthusiast) had been working there until just recently, and since Katie was joining us for dinner too (joy!) there were hints of preferential treatment. And if you know me: my preferred preference is preferential treatment.

The bar which glows a warm blood red was jam packed at almost 9pm on a Friday. Julianna and I greeted Katie who sat relaxed at the bar like she owned the place. Handing us drink menus, we picked our poisons. I opted for a “Windy Village” a concoction I hadn’t indulged since my college years: Meyer lemon + cucumber gin + fresh lemon juice. Served up, it’s a beautifully transparent but milky green cocktail that’s tart, not too sweet, goes down smooth, AND refreshing. Not to mention just one will get you shnooked.

Julianna being surly w/ her Late Blossom Martini.

Droolianna on the other hand opted for Lantern’s variation of a martini, the “Late Blossom”. This pale pink drink has Luksusowa vodka, Lillet Blanc (a french apertif wine), lychee juice and orange flower water shaken together for a perfect mix. Not to mention the succulent lychee fruit as a garnish.

A few gulps into our drinks, a table nearby was cleaned up and waiting. Sitting down, we looked over the menu. Katie helped guide us through the pan-asian fusion fare with confidence — stating she’d eaten the entire menu twice over since working there. And no, she’s not obese. She’s thin and petite.

Ordering up a couple appetizers, our entrees, and then going for a bottle of red, we eased into catching up and talk of the past + future. As long-time friends do. Katie was soon to be moving over my way to L.A. and Julianna was thinking of following suit. Our first courses came out. A soft shell crab drizzled with a chile-lime sauce, a bundle of grilled asparagus bowed by a fried egg, and a trio of crab cakes (the last two dishes were compliments of the kitchen). Then the incredibly diverse charcuterie board: pork terrine (I love a good forced meat), crispy rillettes (think pate poached in fat then shredded and crispified in this instance), thin slices of spicy air-dried beef, crusty bread, and pickled radishes. OH and pork rinds (not that there wasn’t enough pork).

The Soft Shelled Crab Appetizer

Complimentary Crab Crakes

Asparagus w/ poached egg

The frighteningly unique charcuterie board.

Another angle of the Terrine, Rillette, Rinds, pickled radishes, and air-dried beef.

If all that wasn’t heavy and filling enough (which it was) our main dishes came out soon thereafter. Katie had opted for an ENTIRE FRIED FISH. Not shitting you. When the waiter put the plate down, the pescado was staring at me through a perfectly crispy membrane and nearby: the jasmine rice and carrot salad it came with.

Katie pleased w/ her whole damn fried fish

Julianna and I both being water signs opted for the same dish. THE BEEFY ONE: A Red Poll ribeye steak (the Red Poll cow is the oldest cow breed in the U.S. and one of its finest). The meat was seared Japanese Steakhouse style — think Benihana, but also fuck off Benihana as you don’t come miles near this (Although, I’ll see you in a couple weeks probably). The side dishes were just as murderous: flash-fried spinach, a ramekin of yummy ponzu sauce, green tea sushi rice, grilled onions, and a sprinkling of sea salt.

After one bite of the steak that dissolved in my mouth I knew we were in for something special. The crispy spinach was another winner. It crunched with every first bite then quickly melted savory and decadent down into my stomach. Nothing was saved on my plate. Everything consumed. Which is a rarity. I could not be stopped. The food just kept going in.

Japanese Steakhouse style ribeye

So, in a haze of gin, wine, and the perpetual conveyor belt of food, almost the ENTIRE dessert menu was brought out for us to dig into. A jiggly delicious panna cotta with pistachios and strawberries, a butter cake with PEPPERCORN ICE CREAM (????), and something else I don’t remember. I think some mint ice cream sundae + cookie.

If you don’t believe that dreams come true then I don’t know what to tell you. After this meal I BELIEVE there is a heaven and that place is at Lantern. And if you think this is over (I thought it was) — it wasn’t. Katie insisted on an after dinner drink. Cynar. A liqueur made of artichokes that I had yet to ever try. It’s dark brown in color and very sweet. But it’s a sipper. Not to mention Cynar is one of the world’s greatest aphrodisiacs. Something to keep in mind for date night.

The Panna Cotta wiggle

The aphrodisiac apertif

The rest of the evening was a whirlwind. A stop over at an old haunt The Nightlight for a noise convention called Savage Weekend. There I slurred through conversation with old friends, got free drinks at the bar (heyooo it’s good to be back), pointed at drunk people sitting down and declaring them “way fucked up”, then passing out later at Katie’s.

Austin and Adam were two friends I got to see while home.

The next morning. The day of the wedding. I was hungover. Oh god. Not to mention oh GOD: I had to READ out loud in front of more than a hundred people in three hours. Julianna raced me home (not before stopping at bojangles for some fried chicken) and I quickly got my act together for Lauren’s big day. My mother was my date to the ceremony and we were late. But given the bride’s family is Italian nothing was expected to go on time.

The happy couple about to say “I do”

Needless to say the reading went off without a hitch. My voice echoed across each wall of the cathedral, the guests nodded approval at my words chosen by Lauren. And I wasn’t struck down by well placed lightning bolt.

As the ceremony ended, after the new couple said their eternal vows, we moved on to the reception (which Julianna joined me for). The mood looped from happy to bittersweet more times than I could count. Then night enveloped the day and when the dancing winded down, we took part in (ironically) a lantern lift-off. These paper lanterns would be lit from the bottom, and as the hot air expanded the cocoons, we’d let them go and they’d rise up. Into the dark sky, each one a positive thought for the new Mr. & Mrs.

I said my blessings for the newlyweds under my breath and watched the paper balloon lazily levitate up and up, joining the other words and well-wishes. After reaching a certain height, I couldn’t tell the lanterns from the stars in the sky.

Cross-country moves. Quitting jobs. Getting new jobs. Getting new boyfriends or girlfriends. Fiances. Husbands. Wives. Getting older. Changes. Things were moving fast for the people in my life. That’s why it’s most important to be present sometimes. Like dinner with Katie and Julianna the night before. We may or may not remember the food as the years wear on but we certainly will not forget each other’s friendships — the love and support which we’ll have wherever life might take us.

I banked the curves along the stately, pine tree-lined streets of Beverly Hills, the sun’s beams splintered by branches and needles. I wanted to admire the antiseptic beauty of the neighborhood but there was no time really. I was late for a shoot. My pal Chef Megan Mitchell (remember from my CLEO review?) was filming a one-off cooking show promo, and she wanted me to be one of her guests.

The star! Chef Megan Mitchell.

It figures that I would be the only person that could please Megan, her producers, and the show’s future audience. After all, don’t you want someone tall (6’0”), dark (almost all year round), handsome (arguably) and polite (anyone?) to come cook with you? I’m also single, so any attractive strangers please leave comments with your cell number.

Winding a residential road, I couldn’t help but catch glimpses of the opulent homes – some seemingly plopped down by a crane or helicopter onto the manicured, jungle-like slopes. Others appeared old enough that they might have been carved right out of the hillsides. There was also no parking. My Honda rolled up slowly to a tight spot where one end was a driveway, and the other a lipstick red sedan. I could fit. But it might be a little tight. Inching forward, I slid in nicely, but I love-tapped the vehicle in front.

“Oops.” I murmured, feeling slightly bad, yet again, in city where parallel parking is status quo, it happens. So I was going to go about my day when – VROOM — the sedan roared to life.

“oh… shit.” I grumbled. Now I definitely had to do the whole “hey I think I hit your car there” thing. I glanced at the bumper which already looked dinged up to begin with but didn’t see anything glaring. I knocked on the window and a chirpy woman rolled it down. On the passenger’s seat, she had a basket with a yapping Chihuahua in it.

“I nudged your car.”

“What?”

“I hit your car when I was parking.”

“Oh I thought that might have been what happened. I was like, did the earth move or did someone crash into me?!” She stated with performed bewilderment. I was immediately not in the mood for this.

“There isn’t any damage I don’t think, but you should take a look.” The woman stepped out to inspect.

“I think this is you.” She decided pointing to a huge, scrapey dent in her bumper.” I almost laughed.

“That is most certainly not me.”

“Then here.” She said again, pointing to another massive void of red paint.

“Um, I don’t think so.” That mark didn’t even line up to my front bumper.

“Definitely this one” She points to some serious scratch. My eyes rolled so hard it hurt.

“Listen, I barely touched your car.” I declared.

“Okay. Well, I’m not gonna worry about it.” She replied studying me.

“Sorry about that.” I departed down the street to find the right house where the shoot was taking place.

Arriving at the large and white, smoothed stucco home, I sauntered onto the property with swagger. Clearly, the talent had arrived.

“HI!” A sweet, shorter woman came out from the massive front door, “are you the pizza guy?” She continued.

“Pizza guy?”

“I ordered some pizza.”

To be fair I kinda did look like this dude:

“No. I’m Alex. Alex Rose? For the shoot. I’m the talent.”

“Oh! Megan’s friend. I’m Cat the producer. How are you? Sorry, I thought you were the…”

“Yeah. The pizza guy. I wasn’t even holding any pizzas.”

“Come inside.” Cat exclaimed, kindly ignoring me.

As I entered the tall ceilinged home laid out with marble floors, fun paintings, expansive mirrors, and vintage trunks, I went into the kitchen and was immediately handed a glass of wine by James – my friend and good ol’ Chef Megan’s Bae-thing. There was a round of other greetings. One was to a lovely young woman by the name of Dianna. I had to get her name a couple times as I was actually trying to focus my character in my mind for my scene. Turns out I wasn’t the only talent there that day.

Going out onto the porch that looped the home and stared over Los Angeles, I got the idea that this was all going to be way more epic than what was initially led to believe. Creeping up to where the crew was filming Megan – she was flanked by two guests and they were grilling chicken. Behind them a pool and then open-air. We were cliff-side baby.

Our Backdrop

Someone passed by me with some props.

“Excuse me, do you know what I’m cooking with Megan?”

On set!

“Ummm, you’re making cauliflower.” The prop-person went on their way.

Cauliflower? I thought. I don’t even like cauliflower. I downed my cup of wine, found a nearby bottle, then poured another. Suddenly, Katie Danza, wearing a makeup apron and a smile darted over to say hello.

“Thank god you’re here.” We both said to each other probably at the exact same time. “I’m doing makeup.” I looked at Megan who looked natural and radiant.

“She doesn’t even look like she has on makeup.”

“That’s the point honey.” Katie purred.

Katie D.

“Are you going to do my makeup?” I asked fanning myself, “I want to look perfect for the camera.” Katie looked me up and down.

“I could probably powder your face so you’re not so shiny.” Megan called her name and Katie darted off to take care of business. Shiny??? Was I shiny? I looked up at the sun then down at my drink. I cleared the cup.

When Megan’s grilled chicken / arugula salad scene was done, she hurried by me, quickly giving a hug, a smooch, and saying “I’m so glad you’re here!” before sprinting away to get her hair fixed, Katie trailing not far behind. I emptied the wine bottle into my solo cup.

The arugula salad that would later be consumed.

Then the pizza came. Thank God. I grabbed a couple slices and talked to that girl Dianna while she munched on some pita chips. We talked about how we both knew our talented chef, and as our conversation continued we moved onto how good pita chips were, and then we had a pita chip photo shoot because I thought the blue bag perfectly matched her blue dress. Throughout this entire time and until Dianna left not soon after our pita promo, I had no idea it was actually Dianna AGRON (Hello, Glee?). Clearly I had been so blinded by my own delusions of grandeur to notice actual important people.

Dianna hitting the perfect note while singing her love of pita chips.

Megan and Katie came out to take part in pizza, and while they ate, I gave them a slightly dramatized rundown of the lady whose car I clunked earlier.

“… and THEN she started pointing out all these ridiculous scrapes and saying I had done it!” Everyone agreed that I was being treated unfairly. Of course, right as I finished, I turned around to find the Chihuahua woman talking to the producer. My mouth dropped.

I can literally hear the crunch of Megan biting into this pizza

“Excuse me!” I whispered to Megan and Katie, grabbed a beer and ran away. What was Chihuahua Lady doing here?! Who did she know? What did she know? In a panic I found a pack of someone’s cigarettes, grabbed one, and smoked it. I was stressed. And my part was coming up soon, and I wasn’t even in character yet. Who was I? Had I known Megan long? Where was I coming from? Was this “her home” that she was cooking at? So many questions. Not to mention I was apparently a human-shaped reflecting pool (sans powder) and grilling possibly the worst vegetable of all time. When I put out the cigarette I saw the Chihuahua staring at me. It yipped menacingly.

I had two enemies that day.

Perfectly timed to ease my anxiety, local blogger, life coach, and friend Sherry Levine arrived with two bottles of white wine and some lovely wedges (shoes that is). She was playing the role of one of the Dinner Guests.

“This house is aaaaamaaaaaziiiing” She sang. We couldn’t chat long about our lives since the time came for Megan and I to grill some albino broccoli. As I got mic’d the crew explained to me how this was going down. I’d enter as Megan’s friend (I was playing myself unfortunately) and I was bringing a bottle of wine. More wine? OKAY!

My chopping station

Sherry handed me one of the grigios she picked up. Katie coated my face with powder, and someone else told me that I’d be roughly chopping parsley and capers. I had to get focused. Looking over, I saw the Chihuahua woman eying me from back of set. ::GULP::

“ROLLING!”

I strolled up to Megan medium-drunk and offered the wine like some goon-server of an upscale, waspy restaurant. We poured glasses for each other and talked about how we were going to cook cauliflower.

“I hate cauliflower.”

Megan looked at me: “Okay…” She smiled at the cameras. A pro and quite versed in improv as well, Megan went with it, thus creating a narrative where her idiot friend who hates cauliflower would then make cauliflower under her tutelage, eat it, and eventually fall in love with the vegetable. IMMA STORY GENIUS.

When it came off the grill we showered the plate with parmesan, jalapeños AND roasted pine nuts. The best part was how incredibly delectable the cauliflower turned out to be. I didn’t have to fake any enjoyment. And as it happens out cauliflower CAN be delicious and not just look like some weird, pallid growth.

Megan’s perfect grilled Cauliflower

The cameras stopped rolling. The scene was over. Quick, fun, and very painless. Not to mention we got plenty of laughs. But I wasn’t through yet — there was the final dinner scene where all of Megan’s guests would congregate to eat the food they had made with her, and of course, that was going to be the best part. I snuck away to see if more pizza existed, and as I picked at the last slice, the Chihuahua woman was again nearby sipping a bottled water.

“Didn’t think you’d see me again did you? After crashing into my car.” She said grimly. I could only laugh nervously, and I didn’t know what to say except:

“Did you taste the cauliflower? It was so good.” She didn’t smile. I stuffed a pizza crust into my mouth and disappeared into the house to hang out with this dog:

Eventually the sun was setting and all of us chipped in to set the large patio table outside and fill drinks: a Megan-made berry + vodka cocktail, more wine, and James handed me a Corona, because for some reason he thought I needed another drink.

Sherry and Katie are table-ready

Plates of food landed on the table: the grilled chicken topped with dressed up arugula and tomatoes, avocado toast with chopped boiled egg, and finally the familiar cauliflower perfectly presented with a layer of melted parm.

The Avocado Toast

We toasted Megan, which I think sounded more like slurred yelling than an actual toast, but more embarrassing was that we were filmed eating for a very long time. I’ll only speak for myself when I say that cannot possibly be attractive on tape. But whatever, the food was dank as hell.

Cleaning up, I admired all the hard work that the crew, the director, Cat the producer, of course Megan, and the rest of the team had put in on a Sunday. Megan is one of those people that pushes forward, a goal in mind with a plan on how to reach it. Not to mention her talent as a chef and a personality.

Grilled Chicken — or what was left of it.

The entire shoot was really special and I can’t imagine someone not being thoroughly entertained by what was put together. In a sense, it was the essential L.A. day: the sun was bright, the temperature arcing from hot, to mild, then disarmingly cool. There was unrivaled food and wine, wonderful people to be surrounded by, and of course a production crew filming it all — the ultimate example of the dualistic nature of Los Angeles.

It’s a city that’s the center of performance and habitat of the performer, hosting both the face and the mask, existing in reality and also interpreting it for the rest of the world. It’s what makes the metropolis one of the most bizarrely unique places ever. And here I am just lucky enough to eat in it. And that’s fine by me.

P . S .

Before parting for another time – I’d like to mention other hard-working people I know, and who hail from my Alma Mater UNC-Chapel Hill. Daniel Rego, Ryan Haskins, Ben Sahle, Tim Tippens, along with others are raising funds through Kickstarter to tell a poignant tale that takes a tragic story and morphs it into something awesome.

DESERT BLOOM hopes to follow a young-man named Tyler who’s stricken with a unique syndrome which gives his life a knowable timestamp. So far my dudes have raised almost 9,000 -nearly $3000 short of their $12000 goal. Watch the trailer here and help these guys make something that fills us with inspiration and gratitude.

I last posted anything more than a month ago and since then we’ve all passed through a ghastly mercury retrograde. This well-known but often misunderstood astrological occurrence had me dealing with debilitating emotions amid midnight anxiety attacks, eating burrito bowls in bed around 3x a week, visiting graveyards, freaking out at a Spiritualized show, never going to the gym, promising first dates that ultimately lead to ominous third dates, and mysterious mishaps at work like missing Fedex packages. Therefore I wasn’t eating out at dank restaurants and I didn’t want to see that many friends or make any new ones.

Nearing the end of what I consider the worst month (February is both hard to say and spell), I bucked up and re-joined my gym and cut down on the Chipotle to 1x a week in bed (we have to set limits people). I started going out every weekend too. I was going to make shit happen to write about. So, as of late, I’ve been going the opposite direction in reaching my goal to be a full-blown hermit by 2015.

But my apartment does try to get me to stay in every night. It’s just so comfortable. Actually, as I sit here looking around my home, I’m pretty sure it’s the closest thing I have to a boyfriend right now. He also is a little possessive.

INSERT CUT SCENE:

::Alex grabs his tote, setting off to leave his apartment. The lights dim, a presence has entered::

::A spotlight shines over Alex’s bed and then on his laptop on the couch::

Apartment: How about you stay in tonight and watch some Netflix.

::Alex considers it::

Alex: Hmmmmmm.

::His refrigerator door swings open casually::

Apartment: And beer! And leftover eggplant and sausage pizza…

::Alex is almost drooling now::

Alex: OooooOOOo… What about some weed?

Apartment (disappointed): Uh. Hmmmm. No… We’re fresh out.

Alex: Oh. that’s too bad… Well, I’ll see you later.

Apartment: Hey! Don’t leave me.

Alex: I think you need to get out more dude.

Apartment: Oh, you’re hilarious.

Alex: bye.

::Alex slams the door shut as he leaves::

Apartment: asshole.

END SCENE

I figure y’all are wondering — so ALEX, since you live in K-Town, don’t you have to drive to go out because the nightlife pretty much sucks around there?”, and I’d say YEAH. BUT parking is SO shitty in K-Town, when I find a good spot coming home from work on a Friday evening, I’ll be damned if I’ll be driving myself somewhere later. This means I take Sidecars to like Echo Park all the time. That also means I can have more than two drinks and cast my inhibitions to the wind. WEEEEEEEEE~~~~

There was a lot of fun to be had. Mostly involving video head cleaner.

At one point even my mother called me to be like… “Alex, what are POPPERS?!?!?” She even asked me if I was involved in “sex games”? I don’t know what those are but sign me up!

Poppers are pretty much the symbol of the meta-modernist lifestyles we lead (Relax ma, it’s LEGAL). They go in and out quick. Like our attention spans. I brought them to a recent Nasty Gal bash at The Lash celebrating the launch of some magazine called Galore that’s for like Club Kids? IDK — can Club Kids even read?

Photobooth action With Peter — they projected your shots onto the walls of The Lash

Their smutty covers were adorned by Brooke Candy and Azealia Banks. So I shredded them into confetti and tossed them at the crowd. There was crown royal involved and apparently I sat on Chris Brown’s girlfriend and started telling people to leave the party because it sucked (a bouncer was quick to say, “don’t do that or I’ll throw you out”). Truthfully, I was having a great time but was just in the mood to be contrary. After sneaking into the VIP area and giving poppers to a few beautiful strangers, (one Jersey girl had to hold herself up against a wall for like ten seconds while screaming “WOOOOOOO”), I was in bed by 1am, and up at work the next day bright and early. You see it’s all about BALANCE, people.

I’ve also had plenty of mornings waking up in not my own bed. And no I wasn’t getting lucky, instead I was lucky enough that my main Mary would usually let me sleep on her Queen sized mystery mattress (as in it came with her room but we trust it). Those nights usually went like this: a late stint at Little Joy in Echo Park, then Mary and I would speed to McDonalds.

A moment of Little Joy

Then sitting in her bed, after eating some breakfast sandwich, we would both agree that we’d rather sleep than continue to disagree on what we’d watch on Netflix. Clearly, both of us at 26, our priorities have changed.

Throughout all this, I practically forgot I had a blog until my eating disorder psychologist friend (how appropriate) and I reminded each other that we needed to get a lavish dinner sometime soon. Since Danyale is vegan, our options were narrowed to one specific place that I’d been wanting to try — the trendy, raved-about, West Hollywood vegan mecca CROSSROADS.

Danyale — psychologist extraordinaire!

I had heard about it’s blinding-fast rise to prominence in the glam West-Side scene and was aching to try it out. To me, vegan food done extremely well is always satisfying. It can be way healthier, extremely innovative, and usually there’s no guilt associated, like that time I ate cow’s brain from a back of a van on Santa Monica Blvd (which happened not too long ago).

Since it was a Tuesday night and I had requested an early reservation I expected the crowd to be minimal, and I was completely wrong. It was packed and everyone was all decked out in elegant black. Here I was straight from work wearing a sweatshirt, jeans and running shoes (I really took that NormCore thing to heart that day). Sitting down, Danyale and I were immediately thinking about cocktails.

Hendrick’s is FINE I guess.

I went for my usual starter of a dry, dirty gin martini but with Hendrick’s (they didn’t have Tanqueray and I was little offended). Danyale opted for a Crossroads signature cocktail called LA FLACA which translates into “the skinny girl” and I don’t think I have to point out the irony there given her occupation. Decidedly sweet and fresh, the drink was compromised of vodka, root of dandelion, agave, lime + cranberry, and soda.

Fumbling a bit with the menu given Crossroads deals out small, complex plates and there were a host of worthy specials, our server was delighted to guide us through the menu. We settled on three main menu items and two specials.

As we waited for our food, Danyale and I recalled our first meeting — in a port-a-john line at Fuck Yeah Festival. At the time, I was with my friend Spencer that she had once dated (I also ran into someone I had gone on a few dates with in that very same line. It was a wildly serendipitous queue). Since Danyale is a Virgo, we immediately bonded, and also I just have a habit of befriending girls that Spencer had been involved with.

We also discussed her new long-haired, bearded bae-thing that she had met that very same day WE had met. I’m a good luck charm after all… Then our food came — first the “oysters” and the “crab cakes”.

“Oysters”

The oysters were in fact oyster mushrooms with an artichoke puree and kelp caviar which is what gave the ocean taste to the dish. Served on an artichoke leaf over a bed of salt rocks, Danyale and I grabbed our shares and devoured them quickly.

“Crab Cakes”

The “crabcakes” which ended up being my favorite was a concoction of heart of palm, apple, and beet, drizzled with a horseradish aioli.

The Winter Flatbread

As our winter flatbread (chewy and crispy) topped with fingerling potatoes, arugula, butternut squash, and topped with a rosemary-sage cream hit the table, our conversation steered towards life, our ages, and where we were headed.

While I talked about the my accomplishment of finally living alone, Danyale was more on the wavelength of “I’m looking for a house to buy.” Of course my jaw dropped, because when anyone is looking for a place to OWN in L.A. they are doing more than well. Granted, Danyale is more than a few years older than me, but it was nonetheless impressive. It was then that she offered to buy us a bottle of wine, and I really couldn’t argue with that at that point even though I pretended to. The waitress suggested a Pinot Blanc (some mutant baby of a gris and a sauvignon blanc I suppose?), which was probably the best white wine I’ve had in a while. It was followed by our roasted tomato risotto and the loaded potato skins (one of which was topped with vegan cheddar and mushroom bacon). We ate everything off each plate. And we had dessert: a banana rum cake.

The bottom dish are the potato skins!

Roasted Tomato Risotto

Amid the flashbulbs announcing the arrival of a couple celebrities, our dinner together ended beyond satisfaction. We both came to the conclusion that each plate was more than just “good” but fresh, filling, and combined various familiar flavors in astonishingly unique ways.

As we parted each other that Tuesday night on Melrose and Sweetzer Ave. I couldn’t help but think of the restaurant’s name: “CROSSROADS” as I walked back to my car.

A crossroad is an intersection. It’s being able to see the past and future from the now. It’s looking at where you’ve come from and where you want to go. But the thing about crossroads is you gotta leave something behind to take in the new. And while you may be able to look back and see behind you, eventually it fades out completely.

Which is where I am in my life. IN the in-between, the transition, the liminal space of my mid-twenties. The big transition from young-adult to just regular adult. Crossing over can be both a voluntary choice and question of time. On one side is physical youth, but also the choice to be young and make bad decisions, act irresponsibly, go out sniff video-tape cleaner, not care what time it is, eat all the Mexican food you can, etc. On the other side is the knowledge that our bodies are not eternal, that we have (or should have) boundaries, that there is a ticking clock, that we might want to be successful, respected, and comfortable. Wow, comfort. What a radical notion.

The real question, and real challenge of traversing this life intersection is if we can really “have it all”, and will we be okay with it if we don’t?

While not entirely sure if I’m 100% ready to forge the murky waters of future Alexander, last weekend a few visiting senior friends from my alma mater showed up in Los Angeles for their spring break (what is a Spring Break tho?). I met up with them on a slow, Sunday night in Silver Lake. At Akbar, we sipped on drinks we really didn’t want. Nothing made me feel older than knowing all these young things were about to do Ketamine, and all I could think about was my bed (not to mention I can have de-personalizing experiences sober, thank you). I wasn’t going to be completely zombified for a Monday morning at the office. So I left. I had to. It wasn’t a life I understood anymore. My spring break life ended almost four years ago, and I was just realizing it. Driving home, I thought I was sad, and maybe I was. But when I got back to my comfortable mattress, in my own little personal paradise, exactly where I wanted to be, I realized, it didn’t matter all that much.

If you’ve been living under a slab of pavement, or maybe you don’t know who the hell I am, or maybe you do and you don’t really care that much (which is fair), I recently packed up my belongings in my Silver Lake bungalow and parted ways with my roommate Giuls, who was embarking on his own journey with his band Incan Abraham which started their first ever cross-country tour this past weekend. But enough about successful friends, what about ME.

First off, I HATE moving. It takes up all your time, you lose important life-memorabilia, it always costs more than you think it will, and by the time you’re re-settled in whatever new spot, you certainly could use a beer and a nut shot to shock yourself back into the same plane of existence as everyone else who hasn’t moved their entire lives recently.

After my college-era, Virgo friend Eric (creative consultant/stylist/music video director) and I carted my art out of my apartment during the night-hours a couple weeks ago (which he said resembled some east-side heist), we hunkered down at the gay leather bar across the street from me. It was a celebratory drink and a goodbye drink to my time living in Silver Lake. As I scanned the clad-in-black crowd, a stage full of naked men being whipped, girthy cigars being sucked on, and general bearishness, I thought “wow, I really should have come here more often.”

Currently, I’ve shifted South West into the dense, seemingly impenetrable neighborhood that is Koreatown. Or known by the rest of Los Angeles as K-Town. Trendy hipness aside, I was elated to be moving out of the sheeny, fantastical locale that is Silver Lake because honestly, there are only so many times you can stomach grown men on big wheels, motorized unicycles, long lines for coffee, overrated restaurants, and discussions on moving from soy milk to almond milk to coconut milk and ending up at hemp milk. Yes, Lake of Silver, I DO think you’re beautiful, but your verdant surroundings simply masks the inanity of the characters inhibiting your deranged paradise.

My real life American Horror Story apartment.

My new place is something that I’d hafta sell a kidney for to even DREAM of in my old ‘boro. Now, instead of a Home Depot inspired fixer-upper, I’ve got an Art Deco’d out charmer that’s affordable and MY OWN (I feel JUST like Carrie Bradshaw except instead of looking out onto a perfect New York street as I write my next piece, I’m looking out on Los Angeles dirt, chainlink fencing, and cute stray cats).

My illegitimate cat babies

No doubt, living on your lonesome can be a scary experience. My anxiety reared its ugly head only a week or so before I was moved-in and most definitely flaring up as I live here now. It’s normal you know… Who WILL save me when I overdose on frozen pizza and collapse on my beautiful hardwood floors? Do they have life alert for that? Another fear is my first floor placement. While it’s cheaper sure, I don’t have curtains yet, and I’ve already imagined waking up at 4am to discover a lurker peering at me from the outside. I even have a barred door over one window which acts a fire escape (and looks like a cage) which I may use at some point for some sexual fantasy best left unexplained (although when I opined this idea to my most recent hot date, he simply said “not with me you won’t.” but we’ll see about that).

Nerves aside, Koreatown is known for more than a few things, but mainly two: terrible parking and EXCELLENT, authentic, BBQ. While I had only been set up at my chateau for a few days, one of my close friends Katie had arrived from NC to approve L.A. for her future move come June (and Katie, now that I have mentioned you on my blog you have no choice but to abide by this timeline that I have set forth so help you God). So she and I, along with our NC contingent ventured to SOOT BULL JEEP.

Just a 15 minute walk from my apartment, it’s the perfect BBQ house to work up an appetite on the way there, then work it all off on the way back. What’s even more great, is the teeming streets of K-Town in route to Vermont & 8th. It’s cart-to-cart street vendors, all grilling ethnic street foods which probably taste as insanely delicious as they smelled. I’ve even seen the option for BUGS to eat. So you know. This is real. This is happening. Koreatown 2014 + edible insects = Alex’s new America. And it looks crunchy.

We drunkenly glided into Jeep’s unassuming entrance which was uncrowded (given it was a Monday night). What you’ll first notice upon entering is the smell of burning coals. You’ll feel the heat too… and it can get a little hazy. Basically, it’s just hazardous eating here, but it’s worth it. The grills at Jeep are built into each granite table-top, with huge exhaust ducts funneling out the smoke from above .

Taking our seats — six of us in total — the gruff (and always gruff) all female, all Korean staff took our orders. Immediately I was given control of the menu. Regardless of what you may think about KBBQ and it’s status on the chain of cuisine, a good joint will always be on the costlier side. With that in mind, four plates of meat for our group would suffice and not cost an arm nor a leg. I suggested three plates leaving the fourth up to whomever else had a strong opinion. We ended up with the marinated short ribs, marinated chicken, marinated shrimp, and more beef — the marinated spencer steak. While we waited for our server to unload the food on our grill, an assortment of small plates were (and always are) dealt out onto the table like playing cards: garlic cloves, spinach, kimchi, steamed rice, a big bowl of salad (two big bowls in our case), some vinegary cucumber thing, Doenjang (a fermented soybean paste), and other vegetables. But of course, who can forget the beverages.

While selection isn’t astounding, if you don’t know much about Koreans, know this: they can drink. So we drank. A couple bottles of Soju, some bottles of Hite (think of it as the Miller Lite of Korea) and we were set.

From left: Mary, Katie, Me, Brendan, Steph, and Helen. Katie looks like she just stepped away from the Salem Witch Trials to attend dinner.

When the meat reached perfection (you can BBQ it yourself but the staff comes by to turn it if you wanted to be less independent), we all dug in, consuming every morsel without even thinking. At one point, when I looked down at my vacant plate, the only evidence of a once existing meal being a smear of grease, I truly thought I had blacked out. Not from the alcohol, but from the sheer richness of the beef, chicken, and shrimp I had sucked down.

Inflated, we split the bill and then split back to my apartment to celebrate the new digs. On some sort of BBQ high, we burst out more beer, went through and endless number of bad Buzzfeed quizzes, popped out my platonic poppers (see: inhalants), and took pictures of Helen (whom we stuffed into my sex cage/fire escape).

Buzzfeed Quizzin’

The following series is Katie trying to do poppers and me laughing maniacally while dancing around her already high off poppers. I am 26 years old:

And then I darted off into the night and Katie was still inhaling chemicals.

Helen was so wasted we put her behind bars and took embarrassing photos of her.

It was there that I realized, while I did adore my new place, and it was a marker of a new chapter in my life, my true home was wherever me and my friends could gather, be happy, full, safe, warm, and to enjoy one another and forget our individual problems (AWWW, he DOES have a soul after all).

“So is that it?” You may ask.

And I’d say, “maybe,”

and you’d respond “well, Alex, why did you mention ‘diarrhea’ in your title? Did you have diarrhea later? After all this BBQ? I expected diarrhea.”

And I’d tell you, “No… My title wasn’t referencing a past diarrhea. Or even a present diarrhea… but rather, a diarrhea of the not too distant future.”

Meaning, as I write this post, my stomach grumbles with all the steak from a recent trip to the Jeep circulating (I have been twice in one week). Therefore, I can’t help but think… how in the hell am I going to make it out of K-Town without destroying my digestive system? And while my mind spins with concern, the sound of beef roasting not too far off reaches my ears. Then I lose myself to my imagination and the bliss of being swallowed by a swirling tornado of marinated meats.

It was a Friday night, and a little past 8pm. I was pacing my living room. My eyes quivered with a wavering confidence. I was fearful, to be honest. Was this is actually going to happen?

“Are we going to do this? Can I DO this?” I asked aloud. And no, I wasn’t talking to myself. I wasn’t alone. My one and only hetero-dapper-bro-male-partner-in-crime Dan W. was sitting on one my of ruddy crimson couches crafting a perfectly rolled joint. With a final lick he held it up.

“Alex, calm down. Smoke this.”

I shook my head. I didn’t think a joint was a good idea…

My Ride or Die Bitch

Probably one minute later: I took an extreme-sized hit from the joint, my eyes going wide, and exhaling with a series of terrible, frightening coughs. My usual way of smoking.

“Are you going to be okay?” Dan asked.

“No.” I wheezed.

So what was all this anxiety about? Well, people. It’s called drama. And probably drama that I built up in my own head because at the time I had nothing better to do. But the facts are facts, I was screwed over (and not in the good way), by a dude, and this was my chance to confront him.

This dude happened to work down the street from me at Cafe Stella, one of the more lively spots at the Silver Lake junction. Even knowing he was a couple blocks away, working, hitting on other more attractive (but probably far less wittier men) made my IBS flare up like a late-day thunderstorm in the American South. And Dan and I were going to eat dinner there. Of course, you’d think that a good, logical friend would dissuade me from such a course of action, but Dan was completely supportive (and probably for the entertainment value).

Dan is always looking out for me.

“We don’t have to go! Let’s not go!” I shouted suddenly, thinking about the awkwardness of running into someone that had been diddling you for months and then decided to stop returning your texts and phone calls. And I mean complete radio silence, as if he’d passed away in some biking accident (AND YES, I know I sound psychotic but at the time that’s how I was feeling and it SUCKED, and I’m over it now, which is why I can catalogue this whole ordeal quite clearly and hilariously).

“Uh, yes we do.”

“Why? Because I need to run at this head-on, confront my feelings by occupying the same space that he does while pretending to be fine?!?!” I almost screamed.

“No, because I’m hungry and I want some escargot.” Dan whistled.

We’re actually somewhat known in the L.A. area.

Ugh, fucking Dan. Always eating some liver, some snails, beef brain, human hearts or what have you. He takes on in-n-out cheeseburgers as starter courses and slurps down martinis like it’s rainwater in the desert. If anyone dies first from cardiac arrest, it’s this guy.

Dan as a child

Dan as a man (jury is still out on this one).

But whatever we all have our THINGS to deal with. And more importantly, this is the guy that’s been there for me through thick and thin — states of internet insanity, death, bouts of wailing in his office, escapades at East Side parties where we stole a bunch of wine from people we didn’t know, burying things in the desert, and we’re the first to tell the other that maybe we’ve “packed on a few pounds in the face”. There’s no one better than Dan. 1 part entourage and 1 part Buster Keaton, the kid is a genius, and if he doesn’t make my career I’ll kill him myself.

But enough about him, WHAT ABOUT ME AND THIS BULLSHIT STUPID GUY. As Dan and I made the stroll up Santa Monica where it dumps out onto Sunset Blvd (for some reason the Junction is a “big deal” although it’s really nothing to write home about unless you want to see an orgy of alt bros unicycling aroundwhile sipping Americanos and high-waisted jorts-wearing bimbos fawning over them) I rehashed to Dan the story for probably the hundredth time. I had met (we’ll call him “Joe”) Joe at Stella when I was drinking a negroni and looking for a cigarette one night last spring. He had one. I smoked it. We exchanged numbers. He was hot. Great. In this day and age, meeting anyone IRL first is kind of weird and exciting, so I was naturally intrigued.

After a series of texts, a date, a makeout thing, another date, more making out, another date, some other stuff, date, more other stuff, before I knew it had been a couple months. Nothing was official and nothing was spoken of but clearly this would be going somewhere right? WELL first warning sign I should have taken note of (but didn’t in my delusional phase of actually LIKING someone for the first time in a while) was the age-old “let’s take things slow.” OKAY, so if anyone ever tells you this, and again I was new to the whole “he doesn’t like you but won’t tell you straight up” game, RUN AWAY. Especially if you have feelings out in front. Just pack it in, get out, and wish for the best.

But I didn’t do that, instead there were party run-ins, more hang outs, more scenarios where it clearly was ending up in some sort of union. But as you know, that didn’t happen. So there we were pretending like this was some mid-season episode during the second-year run of my yet to be produced TV series documenting my life, and hiking over to this forsaken restaurant to stake my claim as being A.OK with everything. Strong. Valiant. Whatever. Obviously, I was about to have a panic attack. I think there was even a point before entering, where I grabbed Dan by his jacket collar and PULLED him close.

“Alex, let go of me.”

“I’m FREAKING out!”

Dan grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me to my senses.

“Get a HOLD of yourself, damn it!”

As I tried to calm myself down, we entered the establishment. I think I was wearing a porkpie hat. WHAT A DUMB IDEA. I PROBABLY LOOKED LIKE AN IDIOT.

Naw, I looked cute. (photo courtesy of @dannyweeds)

The space was slam-packed as it usually is on a Friday night. Walking in, it’s as if you’ve been transported into a bustling eatery in the French countryside — lights hang from the ceiling, old wooden french doors, massive portraits of dead people hanging on the walls and other crap. But I wasn’t paying attention, I was scanning the room for this sinewy, handsome fuck-face. But I didn’t see him.

We were seated in a secluded side room that over-looked the dining patio. Some sad couple was sitting next to us, but we were separated by a rather large window, like they were zoo animals. They glumly ate their mussels and french fries. Our server came up, a lovely girl. But knowing what I heard about Stella from other frequenters of the french spot, the service is notoriously awful. God, I couldn’t wait to give the place a shitty review. MUAHAHAHA.

We quickly ordered martinis then got to ordering grub — Dan took the lead here. He swore to me that I would like escargot, so we went for that, the tuna tartare, and then finishing it off with the moules frittes — all to share (WE WERE ON A BUDGET OKAY).

Dan wiping out his martini

Getting our martinis quite fast (which was shocking) and also receiving helpful advice from our serving lady about what wine would pair well with our order (i think we opted for a sauvignon blanc, but my memory remains foggy) I was still on the lookout for that piece of shit.

Dan was too busy to notice my anxiety because he was studying the couple beyond the glass next to us. They were both on their phones not talking to each other and finishing their meal.

And another “Dan Drinking” photo. He went off to rehab shortly after this evening.

“Jesus, can you imagine? I would hate to be in a relationship like that…” Dan laughed. I stared at them. They DID look depressed. I could only feel sorry for them… until I saw the guy had like flap-pocket jeans and then I decided they deserved all the unhappiness. And then Dan and I both pulled our phones out and probably tweeted about it.

The tartare came out just after the snails. And while the tuna was a wonderful way to cleanse the garlic-y awesomeness of the invertebrates, I cannot believe I hadn’t done escargot earlier in life.

EscarGOT ’em

It is buttery and perfect to mop up with some french bread. I completely forgot that I was even nervous about anything. When the server came back to check on us, we mentioned the weird couple nearby. She giggled and leaned in.

“Those people were so fuckin’ weird. First off, they didn’t speak once. Secondly, they ordered the mussels right? And they DUMPED the fries into the sauce. Then when they ate all the fries, they ordered MORE fries and put them in the sauce AGAIN.”

Because floated our boats we did! When those mussels came out, we doused that shit with the french fries and went to town.

After all the mussels were done we sopped up the sauce with every piece of bread we could find.

Sucking up every bit of food, by the time the dust had cleared, our stomachs inflated, and kind of drunk, I completely forgot about the whole reason I came here. Critical revenge. But not only was Joe not there, and not working that night, but Cafe Stella actually provided a fantastic meal, so it was kinda like cafe STELLAR. HEYO. and GOD DAMNIT.

As we left the restaurant, I kicked at the rocks on the pavement. I couldn’t help but feel a little bummed about A) not getting a chance to see this dude in the flesh and maybe throw a drink at him and get escorted out but more importantly B) my review couldn’t be as delightfully scathing as I’d hoped.

But this just parallels life and my situation. Sometimes, things just don’t end up the way you hoped. Am I still bitter about the whole thing? A little and I am a Scorpio, and I have a shit-list that I will unveil on my tombstone, but there were lessons learned and a story to tell.

It’s about respect and it’s about honesty. And this is something that everyone can adopt in their lives so they’re not complete dickheads. If you screw around with someone for a good chunk of time, chances are feelings are involved. Communication is key, and even more important is telling the truth. It’s hard to do. I’m not saying it’s easy when I have to let someone down, but if it isn’t right, it’s your responsibility to be real about what you desire and what you don’t. Or else, you’re just (for a lack of a better word) a coward. AND you’re doing that other person a favor.

One day on the internet, I looked up “emotionally unavailable” and the “signs” of this condition were shockingly accurate in this instance regarding this dude and his actions. Now, whether “emotionally unavailable” is a buzz term or something made up by bloggers to write about is beyond me, but it was all there — how could I have not seen it before? I was blinded by his beard and tattoos most likely. Ultimately, while I’d like to play the blame game, I think it’s always important to know what you’re playing with and what you have on your side. I pride myself on my observation skills and they just didn’t come through this time around.

Regardless, this guy didn’t like me, he probably thought that he could do better, and that’s okay too — God knows there are many people out there looking for many different things, and I’m sure I don’t check some of those boxes. But please, please, if you take away anything from this, just know, you can’t get time back. Money is money, things are things, but time won’t ever come around again. So don’t waste yours or anyone else’s… and go eat some fucking snails when you get the chance because those little shits were tasty.